"Open, open, open": my Mervyn’s memories in aisles and echoes

You didn’t shop at Mervyn’s.
You lived at Mervyn’s.

Okay, maybe not literally—but if you grew up anywhere in the Bay Area from the ’70s to the early 2000s, there’s a good chance your socks, school clothes, and maybe even your prom dress came from that magical beige-toned land of affordable clothes and lite music. It's also pretty likely your first charge card came from Mervyn's, too.

It’s hard to explain Mervyn’s to someone who didn’t grow up with it. It wasn’t fancy like Macy’s, but it wasn’t all polyester chaos like Kmart either. Mervyn’s was solid. Sensible. Slightly carpet-scented. It was the go-to department store for families who didn’t need glitz—they just needed Levi's, bath towels, and a three-pack of Mervyn's brand underwear.

The entrance: doors to another dimension

I remember those tinted glass doors so vividly. You’d walk in, and the air would change. Cooler. Buzzier. Fluorescent and filled with the faint smell of perfume and cotton blends. Right up front: mannequins frozen mid-step in sensible separates. Beyond them, the tiled expanse of childhood Saturdays.

My Mervyn's was single level and every aisle was a journey. The Home section with those odd textured pillows. The Shoe Department with its maze of metal racks and those sliding foot measurers (scientific name: Brannock Device, but don’t ask me why I know that). And of course, the Children’s Department—where your mom would make you “try it on” in the fitting room even if it was clearly too big and not your style.

Back-to-school shopping was our Super Bowl

Nothing hit quite like August at Mervyn’s. The store would be buzzing with parents and kids negotiating over Levi’s and Pumas, crisscrossing the store like tiny stylists with cart-wielding assistants. We'd march into the dressing rooms with armfuls of slightly-too-cool outfits, convinced this year would be the one we finally got a pair of red pants.

Then came the ritual: standing in line, watching your new clothes get folded into bags that had no right being that crinkly. If it was a really good trip, mom would say, “let’s go to KFC on the way out,” and suddenly Mervyn’s Day was the best day ever.

The commercials were pure drama

"Open, open, open."
If you know, you know.

That early-’90s ad campaign with the woman tapping impatiently at the glass door before the sale? Iconic. Mervyn’s didn’t have celebrity spokesmodels or perfume ads shot in the French Riviera. It had relatable people waiting for a sale to start. That was us. That was real life.

Mervyn’s: not just a store, a timeline

In a weird way, Mervyn’s was a mirror. I went from holding my mom’s hand past the sock wall to wandering the stores on my own, hunting for jeans and trendy sweaters. Then I worked my first job and Mervyn's gave me a credit card, complete with $60 credit limit. Mervyn’s was there for milestones big and small.

And then, quietly, it started disappearing. Stores shuttered. The signs came down. Sales signs turned to “Store Closing” signs, which somehow felt personal. I still remember walking through a nearly empty Mervyn’s near the end—racks half-stocked, lights a little too bright, the magic dimmed but not quite gone.

Mervyn’s wasn’t flashy. That’s what made it special.

It wasn’t the kind of place you bragged about shopping. But it was where life happened. Where moms chased toddlers through the housewares. Where teens grabbed last-minute tops for school dances. Where dads bought socks and called it a day.

Although it closed late December 2009, you can still find bits of Mervyn’s if you look close enough. A hanger in the back of your closet. A towel with a slightly scratchy tag. Or that inexplicable urge, every time you walk into a Target, to whisper: “Open, open, open.”

Wherever you are now, Mervyn’s, thanks for the memories. You dressed us for life, and we didn’t even know it.

Scott Parsons